


Blakefield Kisstober 2020: Day 28 [Proposal Kisses]

by Milothatches



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Fluff, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Miscommunication, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:00:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27269857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milothatches/pseuds/Milothatches
Summary: The thing is, Will can never take him seriously.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 3
Kudos: 40
Collections: Blakefield Kisstober 2020





	Blakefield Kisstober 2020: Day 28 [Proposal Kisses]

The thing is, Will can never take him seriously.

  
  


When Blake isn’t telling a story, his humour comes out in sarcastic quips or blurted out opinions. It doesn’t mean anything good in army terms, and Will’s spent more times digging up trenches and patching up wires because Blake said something he shouldn’t have than probably necessary, but it does mean Blake ends up a favourite among soldiers.

So when Will manages to make something decent out of the standard watery stew they’re given, and Blake moans out “Jesus fuck, marry me,” Will has to try hard not the fumble and spill scalding water all over his hands.

It’s not - it’s not the factor of  _ marriage _ that bothers him. It leaves him sick to the stomach and gasping for air with his knees curled to his chest at the thought that one day he’s going to have to marry someone because otherwise they’ll  _ know, _ they’ll know something is wrong with him, and he’ll have to  _ lie _ and be  _ trapped _ \- 

\- Anyway. It’s not the marriage part that bothers him. It’s the fact that Blake says it to everyone.

  
  


Now, for example.

  
  


“Sir, respectfully, I could marry you right now,” Blake says, wide-eyed. The lieutenant in question just laughs - he’s not the one who ordered their relief from the front line, both Will and everyone else know it, but any reprieve from the constant shelling is a godsend. Maybe the food will come more often and the mail will come sooner and the air won’t smell like bodies - that’s enough for any man.

“Dunno ‘bout that, Blake, hear his wife’s a devil in the kitchen.”

“She hasn’t seen me in one, then,” he bites back, indignant. 

Will wants to scream. Because now he’s thinking about Blake’s hands covered in flour instead of mud, and the way he laughs and if he bakes, too, or is only good at cooking like Will, and what he’d look like in their kitchen in the sun --

He stands abruptly, muttering something about needing to take a piss. It doesn’t help, because there’s never anywhere he could go that wouldn’t end up leading back to Blake, but it’s worth a shot.

He just needs to breathe.

  
  


\---

  
  


Another issue is --

“What’re the rings for?”

Blake looks up. The truck they’re in lurches about, which means Will’s shoulder is always brushing his, and everything is loud and too close and too much.

“What about them?” He asks. The Private in question waves at Blake with one hand, vaguely.

“You’ve got two on. You married?”

“No,” Blake frowns, holding his hand up. “Means I’m not interested in it. See? ‘S what the pinkie one is for.”

Will’s heart drops. And it’s  _ stupid,  _ it’s not even possible, but it still feels like a shot to his gut.  _ I am, _ he thinks.  _ If it’s you, I am.  _

Stupid. He shouldn’t even be getting upset about this in the first place. Blake’s a friend -- just because he’s been by his side lately doesn’t mean he’s going to be forever. He should’ve accepted that a long time ago.

  
  
  


“Scho?” Blake says. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Will grits out. He never liked the convoy rides - too loud. It’s always too loud. That used to not be a problem, before. 

“Well, if you want to talk about it,” he offers quietly. His eyes are still worried. Something in Will hates that he put that there.

  
  


He doesn’t.

  
  
  


-

  
  


It’s the 6th. Maybe the 7th. Will holds out a piece of bread, because despite himself, he cares.

“I could marry you,” Blake sighs.

  
  
  


-

  
  


It starts to become an actual problem when Blake finally asks if he’s got any family. They’re spending stolen time outside the make-shift hospital -- For once, the bandage around Will’s head doesn’t itch and the sun doesn’t feel too bright and he’s not fighting an infection, anymore, so when Blake asks if he could help him sneak outside, he obliges.

  
  


“Wife? Any kids?”

“No,” Will says dismissively. He’s trying to focus on the little bit of wood he’s whittling in his hands, back pressed comfortingly against one of the few trees around while Blake tugs out grass by the handful.

“Really? None at all? Not even a girlfriend?”

Will shakes his head.

Blake puffs out air disbelievingly. “Would’ve thought they’d be coming out of the woodwork for you. You’re right handsome, Scho.”

Will shrugs, still refusing to meet his eyes. “It just never interested me.”

“What? Marriage?” Blake asks. “..Me neither. Not really.”

Something dark and resentful twists in his gut, and Will hates that it’s there. It’s stupid. “I know,” he mumbles bitterly.

Blake stops. “What’s that mean?”

“Nothing. You’re just - You’re always saying it.”

“Scho, you have to know I’m joking,” Blake frowns. Will stays silent.

And then - and then something like realization starts to dawn on his face. It fills him with a dreadful horror. There shouldn’t  _ be _ anything to realize.

  
  


“Do you - Do you not want me to be?”

  
  


Will’s shaking. Minutely - just his hands. It started somewhere in Theipval, and never stopped. He has to take extra care not to cut himself. 

“Scho, do you not want me to be?” Blake is leaning closer, more seriously.

“..Are you - If I were - Are you going to -”

“No!” he says quickly, eyes wide. “No, no. I would never. I -  _ Scho,  _ I could  _ never. _ ”

Will inhales. He sets the knife down by his side, before he hurts himself. Before he does something he shouldn’t out of fear. It’s Blake. It’s  _ Tom.  _

  
  


“Then - yes.”

  
  


Blake breathes. His curls are ruffled in the wind, his side is still wrapped up in bandages, but his eyes don’t show any malice. He’s as beautiful as ever.

“Okay,” he says, sounding breathless. “Okay. Yeah, I can - I can do that.”

And then Blake’s fiddling with his hands, sliding off one of the rings on his fingers. Something in Will  **shakes.**

“Blake - Blake, what are you doing?” he says, suddenly frightened. Blake only scoots closer, away from the handfuls of loose grass and to where Will’s curled up.

“Give me your hands,” and then he’s holding both of them in his own and staring at Will intently as if he’s the entire universe. “William Schofield, I meant it every time,” Blake says. “And you’re stupid to think I would ever hold something like fancying men against you, but I never said anything, so that’s partly my fault.”

“What?” he croaks.

“I’m - um,” Blake looks away, as if suddenly nervous. “This is me formally proposing. I guess. If you want me to be.”

“Are you sure?” Will says quietly. 

“Yes,” Blake says, and when he pulls away he leaves the ring behind, neat and simple and tender in Will’s palm.

  
  


Will stares at it, for a moment. Just - processing. It feels light. It feels like he’s holding the world in the palm of his hands, and it was a gift. When he looks up at Blake, there is something hopeful and hesitant there. 

Will kisses him. It is all he can do. When Blake has to break away to laugh, it feels like coming home.


End file.
